


Stomach Churning

by FandomAfterDark (FandomLastsForever)



Series: TMA Connected One-shots [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Corruption, Death, Doctors & Physicians, Food Poisoning, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Horror, Illnesses, Mentions of Cancer, Murder, Nausea, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Poisoning, Sequel, Set During Season One, Stitches, Stomach Ache, Surgery, Terminal Illnesses, Vomiting, Worms, ask to tag, sequel fic, still getting used to writing TMA so please be gentle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23606989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomLastsForever/pseuds/FandomAfterDark
Summary: "Statement of Morton D. Lavari about something stomach churning. Statement taken directly from subject February 13th, 2016. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.Statement begins."
Series: TMA Connected One-shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699201
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Stomach Churning

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel of "Don't Eat Dinner", featuring the appearance of the delivery boy from before.

It was getting close to closing time when the lad came in. Black hair that was dyed a dark electric blue on the tips and underside, with soft brown eyes, and freckles all over his cheekbones. He looked so young. Couldn't have been more than twenty if Jon had to guess. He wore skinny jeans, a chocker, red converse shoes, and a black hoodie under a nice green jacket, the pockets of which held his hands. Despite his appearance, he was rather plain looking. Seemed almost lost, staring at Jon blankly.

After a moment of silence, Jon finally spoke up. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"Um, yes? I think so?" the lad replied. "See, I heard you people take statements of spooky shit. So I popped over after work hoping you'd, uh, you'd maybe fit me in?" He laughed nervously. "The, uh…that one guy told me to come back here. Kinda sweet. Offered me some tea-

"Ah. Right. That'd have been Martin." Jon quickly cleared up space on his desk, pulling out a fresh tape. "Of course I can take your statement. Just give me a minute to clean up here."

"Hey, no worries, mate. Take your time."

The lad made himself comfortable in one of the chairs near the desk, glancing around the room absentmindedly. It didn't take too long to get the tape set up, though Jon made a note to request more soon. After this statement, there would be only three left. He didn't realize the stack had gotten so low. He pulled out a blank file, and pressed play on the recorder. 

"Statement of…" Jon looked the lad over, raising an eyebrow. "Your name?"

"Ah, Morton," the lad stammered. "Morton D. Lavari. Sorry, I'm uh…you know, I'm new to this."

"That's fine."

"Do I just start now or-"

"Let me finish the introduction first. That way things are more organized."

Morton chuckled. "You mean like one of those radio shows or podcasts. You know, like Ghost Hunt UK or What the Ghost. Something like that, right?"

"…right," Jon sighed. "Something like that. You can start when I say 'statement begins'. Does that help?"

"Certainly. Let's do this."

"Alright then. Statement of Morton D. Lavari about…?"

"Something stomach churning."

"…something stomach churning. Statement taken directly from subject February 13th, 2016. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins."

* * *

_"Did you know there's hundreds of conditions for the stomach alone? So many ways for it to be torn asunder. Cancers, ulcers, diseases. Bacteria and parasites. Allergies. Food intolerances. And that's just what occurs naturally in nature. There's hundreds of ways to fuck up the stomach with man-made tools. You see it all the time in surgeries. One wrong nick, and the stomach acid can go everywhere. Or nerves can be damaged to the point where you're in chronic pain. Perhaps even to the point where you cannot eat._

_I think that's one of the reasons I find the digestive system so interesting. It's so delicate. The smallest little thing can cause immense pain. I knew that kind of pain, once. So very long ago. It's one of the few things I remember from before. I felt it. Every day for most of my life. On a good day, it'd just be hard to eat. Everything would either come back up or run straight through me. It meant I had to eat constantly, just to make sure I got enough nutrients to survive._

_But that was my good days. My bad ones…_

_It was unbearable._

_Have you ever been stabbed, Mr. Archivist? Not quickly, like they show on the telly. But slowly, with the dullest blade. Starting with the tip, pushing into your skin until it finally pierces you. You think that's the end of it, but it isn't. It keeps going._

_Deeper and deeper, so agonizingly slow that with each passing second, you're begging to be released. Cutting through layers of flesh and muscle, making a hard twist as it finally reaches your center._

_As it tears into your stomach lining, a second hand begins to scratch and claw its way in beside the knife, clamping down as tightly as it can on your intestines until you're curled up into a ball of pain and agony._

_And all you can do is scream in pain to anyone who would listen. Or until your voice goes hoarse, and you fall asleep after being awake for hours. Sometimes days._

_Imagine having to endure that kind of pain for years. And with every doctor's appointment, every scan, they'd find something different. One time, it was ulcers. Another time, a tumor or ten. Stomach cancer. Nasty shit. There was an appointment I vaguely recall when they diagnosed me with Crohn's disease, that was a fun time._

_The worst was definitely the maggots. Hundreds upon hundreds of small, wriggling, squirming pests. They sound so much like squishing gelatin between your fingers when all bunched together. They managed to make it all the way to my kidneys, ripping apart my liver, and I ended up having several transplants over the course of the week to replace half my innards. I lost track of how many times they cut me open and pumped me with drugs. The number of surgeries and antibiotics and steroids. I don't remember a time before the hospitals were my normal._

_And to be honest, I couldn't care less. You tend not to care when you're desperate for it to end._

_I don't remember when it happened. The day the pain finally stopped. All I remember was waking up in a dark, frozen box. The cool of metal all around me. I didn't notice anything else, aside from lots of new cuts in my torso. Lots, and lots, and lots of cuts. And stitches. A perfect tri-cut, in the shape of a wishbone. I panicked at first. What person wouldn't? I kicked and screamed and beat at the walls. It wasn't until my voice grew sore that I realized that was the only pain I felt. Despite the stitches, after suffering for most of my life, my stomach pains had finally ended._

_At least, ended for me. Bob the Medical Examiner wasn't as lucky. Fried chicken for lunch, and when he finally opened my door and let me out, it happened. I barely touched him. But a single touch is all it takes. He collapsed to the floor, screaming and crying in pain. Clutching his stomach as he crawled over to the wastepaper basket, wrenching and coughing between tears as he filled it with bile and meat. Chunks of minced viscera dribbling down his chin. I played dead just in time for an emergency team to run in and escort him out of the morgue. Though I'm certain he returned not too long later._

_When I was sure I was alone, I stood up, stumbling around at first before looking myself over in a mirror in one of the locker rooms. The hand I had touched Bob with had some blood on it. My blood. I knew it was mine. I don't know how I knew. I just did. Guess that just happens when you've grown so used to your own body after a while. You grow to know it so intimately. What makes it tick. You know exactly where to press to ease the pain it's giving you on your foot. Or in my case, know exactly how to grip the stomach so that the throbbing doesn't incapacitate you._

_I pulled out the stitches, amazed that I didn't fall open. I still bled, of course, but not nearly as bad as I used to. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of the lockers hung open. There were some clothes that looked about my size, along with a lunch box that contained a few granola bars, a dark red apple, and some milk. I could tell it was still fresh. Whoever it belonged to must have only just arrived at the hospital._

_I don't know what tempted me to do it. But it was as if there was a calling. A whisper in my ear telling me to do it. I took some of my blood, and rubbed it all over the apple until you couldn't tell it had been tainted. I put it back, took the clothes for my own, and walked out of the hospital. I stuck around nearby though. Listening to the sounds of the sick and weary. It was music to my ears._

_And then I felt it. A slight pang of hunger deep within me. The kind that churns your stomach until you take a bite of something to stave it off. But I didn't need to eat to stop it. I could taste the apple on my lips, despite no fruit being in my hand. The juice trickling down my throat. The hunger ended, and a panic began inside. A young resident by the name of Johnny Clarkson had collapsed and started vomiting. I'm pretty sure it was Johnny Clarkson. That's what the ID in the wallet told me his name was._

_I suppose it didn't matter who it was._

_What mattered was they were dying, and I had places to be._

* * *

As he finished giving the statement, Jon stared at Morton in silence, eyes wide as he tried to comprehend what he just heard. It took him a minute to realize he was clutching his own stomach, hand trembling as the nausea crept in. He didn't know what terrified him more. The fact that this young man had described everything so vividly, or the fact that he did it with such a saccharine grin. Had he gotten paler? And his eyes.

_When were they red?_

"Well," Morton huffed. "I certainly feel better after that." He clapped his hands together, jumping to his feet. "I suppose I should head out then. Thank you for your time."

Jon quickly got to his feet, a sinking feeling deep in his gut at the sight of green nail polish. "Wait-"

"Sorry, Mr. Sims, but I gotta go."

"Is there any way we can-"

"Bye!"

Morton hurried out the door, leaving Jon alone in the office, tape recorder still running. He tried to will himself to fun after him, but Jon found himself frozen in place. Already the face of Morton was already fading quickly from his memory. He slumped back into his chair, taking a deep breath.

"Statement ends," he said. "I…I don't know how to describe what transpired here just now. Morton D. Lavari seems to match the description of the pizza delivery boy from a prior, right down to the green nail polish. But…the police sketch doesn't help, even after seeing him face to face. If you held it up while he was in a lineup, there would be no way to point him out. It's too…plain looking. I suppose if I ask Sasha to run the name by some people, maybe they'd be able to find out if a Morton delivered for-"

He paused, the feeling of nausea growing worse. "Pizza delivery. Morton _D. Lavari_. Godammit. There's no way that's a real name. Finding this man now…it'll be impossible. Dammit." Jon took off his glasses, lightly tossing them onto the desk. "I suppose this…this statement. It'll be the only proper evidence that this mystery delivery boy existed. I…I don't know how to feel about it. I'll talk it over with Sasha later, but…I think this case might be closed. Maybe. I don't know." He let out a sigh. "End recording."

He sat in silence for what felt like hours, letting the tension in his muscles fade. He didn't think he'd be able to have dinner tonight.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"Jon?" called a voice. "May I come in?"

"Sure. Come on in."

Slowly Martin entered the office, giving Jon a small smile. "I made some tea, if you want some." He glanced around the room. "Did…did he leave already? That Morton person?"

Jon nodded. "Yes, he left. We just wrapped up." He paused. "What kind of tea?"

"Uh, it's um," Martin stammered, eyes glinting with excitement. "It's a ginger tea. A very nice blend. It's good for relaxing and for nausea. Tastes lovely."

"…You know…that actually sounds good. I'd love a cup."

* * *

"Never again. Never, ever again. I am not working through dinner again."

Tim continued his grumbling as he walked down the street, looking for anyplace still open past eleven. He didn't want to stop at yet another pub. Especially since he had an early morning tomorrow. He pulled his scarf a little tighter around himself, fighting off the chill as he turned the corner.

Only to almost stumble back when he bumped into someone with blue hair.

"Shit," hissed. "Sorry mate. You alright?"

The stranger chuckled, and it was only after a double take that he noticed he was eating a lollipop. "I'm alright," the stranger assured. "What about you, sweet stuff?"

Tim smiled, tilting his head. "Alright. A bit hungry. Only just got off work and really don't want to have another frozen dinner."

"Well, I know this really nice late-night buffet not too far. Care to join me?"

"That sounds delightful." He held out his hand. "Name's Tim."

The stranger accepted his hand, smiling brightly in the dim streetlights.

"I'm Morton. Nice to meet you, Tim."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticisms welcome. Still getting used to writing TMA, but I'm having a lot of fun with it.


End file.
